Paper Faces
by CuriousFlynn
Summary: It's Halloween night the year of the Battle of New York, and Clint and Natasha find themselves on assignment at a masquerade ball in Venice. Their costume choices, however, do no leave the other pleased.


**A/N: Happy belated Halloween and somewhat-on-time Thor:The Dark World premiere! **

**Set the Halloween after The Avengers movie.**

**This was going to be a one-shot, but 1) I'm not done, and 2) I'm having way too much fun with it, so I'll let it go a little longer.**

**(For those of you who've read my other Clintasha story, Poor Girl: All We've Got, this does not specifically fit into that continuity.)**

**Enjoy!**

Natasha adjusted her angle to minimize the glare and replaced the binoculars on the window pane. Streaks of warm light glittered with the ebb of the water, cut by the occasional silhouette of a gondola sliding silently though the canal. Tiny black figures buzzed around on the steps of the opposite building, setting up velvet ropes and stringing lights along the wooden dock. Bright halogen lights blazed in the large and numerous windows, a stark contrast to the yellowed glow of the neighboring edifices.

"How are we doing?"

"Nothing too exciting yet. Security did their second sweep, they're in the process of lighting the dock, and the caterers are onsite. Mr. Allen left in a motor boat twenty minutes ago, but I doubt he'll stay away long."

Clint emerged from the bathroom still toweling off his hair. "Control freak, right?"

"Textbook, according to the file."

"Hmm . . ." said Clint, adjusting the strings on his hunter green flannel pants. "Just like someone else I know."

She turned over her shoulder, leaving the binoculars pressed against the cool glass of the slider window. "Can I help you?"

He came up beside her and placed his hand on the binoculars. "Let me have a turn?" She didn't react. "Come on, start getting ready."

"We might not even be going, and the party isn't for hours."

"And I'm just going to leave it at that," Clint smirked and took the heavy black plastic casing from her hands. "Besides long-distance is sort of my thing." He opened the slider and stepped out into the brisk wind on the balcony. His pants snapped in the breeze. Natasha began to saunter away, putting a little extra swing in her hips, but she turned back.

"How many boats do you see?"

"Twenty seven," he answered without a second thought.

Natasha joined him on the carved stone balcony. She wrapped one arm over his bare chest and brought the binoculars up to his eyes. She peeked out past his ear, securing her direction, then put a finger to his freshly shaven chin and tilted his head a few degrees. "Twenty eight."

Clint blinked at the blue-green boat painted in a brick alleyway, it's dark outline almost entirely swallowed in the evening shadows. "No fair". He shook his head and pushed her playfully back into the hotel room "Very funny, now go get ready."

He followed her back inside, leaving the slider cracked open. Clint did a little spin around the gilded hotel room, the hand-carved furniture, the gold-leafed wallpaper. "Can you believe this place?"

"I thought you were supposed to be keeping watch," said Natasha's voice through the bathroom door.

"I am." He leaned against the slider frame and stared back out into the darkness. "Besides, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s got the place so wired up they'll know if one of those caterers sneaks a cookie."

"Yes, and?"

"And you prefer to do things yourself. So I've noticed. Seriously though," and he gave a little whistle, "this room!"

"Because of the architecture of this hotel, it was the only room with the proper vantage point."

"So they tell me, and I am loving it! What if every mission came with a gilded penthouse suite in Venice?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. would have to pay for the repair of a lot of penthouses."

"Cynic."

"Optimist. What's happening?"

"Control freak," Clint muttered back under his breath. "A small group, what looks like the DJ and his equipment and assistants are unloading at the side entrance."

"Anything else?"

"Expecting someone?"

"I'm expecting something. Some sign that the kidnaping is going down tonight."

"Well whoever these guys are, they must be good," said Clint. "Otherwise S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't have sent us." He scanned the shadowy span across the canal. "It is weirdly quiet. I'd expect more parties. Trick or treaters or something."

Natasha emerged from the bathroom and took a seat at the brightly lit, tri-mirrored vanity. She crossed her legs and unscrewed the lid of a makeup jar, glancing at Clint in the largest of the gold-framed mirrors. "American Halloween is not a global holiday."

"So those fancy masks you were gawking at earlier . . .?"

" . . . Are for the Venetian Carnival, a springtime festival whose end marks the beginning of Lent. You Americans think everyone plays by your rules."

Clint strode up behind her and placed his hands of Natasha's silk-covered shoulder. "You're American darling."

"For once, actually yes. Veronica Robles, an American heiress with a trust fund and nothing to do on Halloween flew out herself and her most recent beau Jonathan Hull out to Venice for Reed Amos Allen's Inaugural Venetian Masquerade Bash, sure to be a travesty of culture on all sides."

Clint took a touch of makeup and blotched it on Natasha's carefully powdered nose. "Like I said, cynic." As he walked away, Clint's ears piqued at a soft whizzing sound. He spun and snatched the pair of sharp metal tweezers out of the air seconds before they collided with his pajamas. "That was cold, Natasha." She went about applying her makeup as if she hadn't noticed.

"Reed Amos Allen. American entrepreneur and world-traveling philanthropist who rented the _Hotel di Albergo Farfalla _and its five-star ballroom for his little party," Clint read, picking the glowing blue tablet frame off the mahogany coffee table. "Fifteen days ago, S.H.I.E.L.D. received a credible tip that Allen would be targeted at his own party. His business involvement with several weapons manufacturers makes his capture a threat."

"A serious one. Last time a weapons mogul was kidnapped, it resulted in me spending a week as Tony Stark's personal secretary."

"I still say you got the better end of the deal on that. You got to see Stark industries, got to the Grand Prix, watch Tony make a fool of himself and beat up some terrorists. I spent that week in a bucket in the rain in New Mexico babysitting a guy we weren't even sure at that point had superpowers."

"You really haven't let that go, have you. It's —"

"Am I interrupting something Agents?" said a cold voice through the tablet. Agent Margarite Espinosa, running point on this mission and therefore Clint and Natasha's temporary handler.

"No ma'am," Clint replied.

"Watch your tone, Agent Barton."

Clint threw his hands wide and silently mouthed to Natasha "What?"

"She can see you," said Natasha. Clint's lips pursed and he rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. "Right."

"Any news on the kidnappers?"

Espinosa paused. "No. Team 636 raided an abandoned flat on the mainland. They're still going over what's left of the paper trail, but the evidence clearly suggests an assault tonight. As they weren't able to locate or detain the targets, we have to assume they're already on the move. You're up. Get dressed."

"Yes Madame," said Clint with a lavish bow to the tablet screen.

"Dismissed." Agent Espinosa disappeared with an icy huff.

"That's really not the wisest move with her."

Clint shrugged. "She already doesn't like me. What's a little more? This rotating handler business got old a long time ago."

"I can't help but agree."

Clint put the tablet down on the table and leaned against the window. "I miss Coulson."

"He was no-nonsense too. And he would not have let you get away with that last one, _Monsieur._"

"Well yeah, but I wouldn't have done it to him. He was tough, but he was our guy. Our old car-driving, Captain America collectable-collecting guy. He wasn't a robot behind those shades."

Natasha was beside him now. She placed a hand on his arm. "He was our friend."

Clint took a deep solemn breath. "Let's get dressed."

"I have to say I'm relieved we're not being recalled yet," said Natasha as she pulled a long garment bag from the closet. "I have no interest in seeing what Stark does to the Helicarrier tonight. And poor Steve. I'm not sure our Star-spangled boy scout is ready for his first major modern holiday."

"I've got to say, I'm a little disappointed I'm going to miss it. I heard a rumor Tony was trying to get Bruce to dress up as Frankenstein."

"Frankenstein's monster," Natasha corrected.

"Well that all depends on whether or not he can get him to Hulk out or not."

Natasha snapped her head back to where Clint was rummaging through his suitcase. "That's not funny. Clint that is not _remotely_ funny. Bruce is a kind man, but that _thing . . ._"

" . . . Helped save the planet."

" . . . Is not something to be trifled with as a Halloween prank!"

"And I'm sure Tony recognizes that . . . for the most part." Clint pulled a black zipper bag from his luggage. With a brush of his hand, he gestured for Natasha to retreat into the bedroom. "I want you to be surprised. You're gonna love it."

"I'm concerned already," she replied, and disappeared into the bedroom.

Clint drew the blinds and opened up the bag. He rubbed his hands together in excitement. This was gonna be good.

He took off the flannel pajamas and pulled on fitted black pants reenforced on the side of the thighs. Next he laced up knee-high leather boots attached to gold-rimmed knee pads. He rocked back and fourth, testing them out. Not bad. He slipped his arms through the sleeves of fitted black shirt, then topped it off with a foamy chest plate of armor that slanted off around his hips. Pinching the stretchy black sleeves against his palms, he slid his wrists into the matching gold-painted arm guards. He rolled his wrists to make sure they didn't restrict his movement. The S.H.L.E.I.D. Experimental Apparel Lab had really done wonders with his request. He slipped his arms through the holes in an ankle-length trench coat of sorts, whose sleeveless shoulders flared out above his own. Clint felt for the snaps set onto the chest plate and swung the heavy green velvet cape over his shoulders with a dramatic flourish. He set it into place, wriggling his arms and adjusting the draped folds. For the final touch, he picked up the helmet and held it on his hip. He caught a glimpse of himself in the vanity mirror and couldn't stop the grin from crawling over his face. "How d'ya like me now?"

Natasha strode out of the bedroom in a gorgeous red ball gown. Silver swirls adorned the strapless bodice, and matching gem patterns held up the scarlet fabric in elegant scallops.

"Aww, Natasha! You promised you'd dress up! I mean you look gorgeous, but . . ." He trailed off. Natasha stared at him. Her perfectly trained face barely reacted, but he could see the slight deepening of the lines on her face, the crinkles around her barely squinted eyes and the corners of her scowl.

"Heh? Heh?" Clint said enthusiastically. This is not the reaction he had been hoping for. Expecting? Sure, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he had really been crossing his fingers . . ."

Even encased in what should have been the rustling fabric of the ball gown, Natasha's movement remained silent as she closed the space between them. Her graceful, manicured hand landed hard on Clint's cheek, throwing his face to the side. He skin began to sting before her arm even fell away. "Of all of the immature, childish, irresponsible things you're ever done . . !" Natasha pursed her lips as she tried to quell the burning anger rising in her chest enough to form an argument. "This is terrible. It is so horribly tasteless . . ." She let her nose and ears turn red, just to drive home the point. Brushing a lock of hair from her eyes, she cocked her head toward him. "No, Tony's alleged little stunt with Bruce is tasteless. This is downright disgusting."

He took a step back."I'm sorry, I thought of all people, I had a right —"

"A right to what? Flaunt the near destruction of the entire planet in everyone's faces?" Natasha ripped the gold helmet from his hands and jabbed the rounded antlers at his chest. "And here, tonight, on a mission for S.H.I.E.L.D.? In front of people who risked their lives, who lost their friends because of this guy?" Natasha tossed the helmet to the floor. One of the antlers cracked and fell away as the rest rolled unevenly toward the slider. She gave the broke piece a little nudge with her shoe as she turned away. "I thought you were better than that."


End file.
